


The Line of Succession

by marxist_monke



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adoptive Parent, Angua is a Queen, Friendship, Gen, Vimes is the rare model of a good dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27828034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marxist_monke/pseuds/marxist_monke
Summary: The city is changing, with rail lines, and all sorts of new regulations. He doesn't really like to admit it, but Duke-Commander Sir Samuel Vimes is not getting any younger.
Relationships: Carrot Ironfoundersson/Angua von Uberwald, Samuel Vimes/The Law, Sybil Ramkin/Samuel Vimes
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	The Line of Succession

The fog of Ankh-Moorpark is as much a character of the city as Foul Old Ron or Gimlet or even Lord Vetinari himself. It has its moods (usually morose) and its ill tempers. It’s a subtle thing, but more than forty years of wandering these streets, has made Sam Vimes fluent in its language. It’s going to rain tomorrow 

Oh and they’re about to get mugged. 

“Alchemist’s Guild blew up again.” He grouses. The first would-be assailant steps out from the soupy air, waving a knife about. Sloppy. Vimes cracks the man (boy really) on the knuckles with his truncheon and then follows up by stepping in close. Best way of dealing with a knife is getting out of range (not really an option in this field of work) or getting too close to stab properly. The boy drops the knife and squeaks in surprise. Rather than throw a haymaker for the lad’s face, Vimes grabs the boy by the front of the tunic and twists him into a headlock. 

They don’t make them like they used to. The villains of his early days on the force don’t plague the streets anymore, and these kids playing at ruffian aren’t cut out to really shiv someone. 

“I’d heard they were trying to make a new kind of steam engine.” Angua strolls into view, the fog falling off her shoulders like a heavy cloak. Her hands are firmly clasped on the back of the necks of two boys. They’re practically quivering in fear. 

“We’re sorry miss, if we’d a known you’d were it was you we wouldna!” 

Angua snorts. 

“You’re Miss Cake’s nephew aren’t you?” She asks sweetly. The boy quivers. 

Vimes sighs and loosens his headlock slightly. Doesn’t want the boy to pass out. 

“A new steam engine? Oh Vetinari will be right pleased.” There is a little known god of sarcasm on the Disc by the name of Acerbia. Without knowing it, Sam Vimes is her most devout priest

“Shall we cut them loose sir, or turn them in at the station?” She asks him. Vimes eyes the officer. She’s appraising the boys. Taking in their threadbare clothes, their sooty faces. With her nose she’s probably even getting more than he is. 

“Your beat captain. What would you like to do with these miscreants?” 

Angua’s gold eyes flick over to him briefly and she cocks an eyebrow. He gives her nothing back. 

“Station sir. They can use a meal, and I’d like our indigent services officer to take a look at their situation. The youngest here should probably still be in school.”

Vimes nods. It’s a good call. Better than he’d have made at her age. 

“And I want to ask the one you’ve got there about that Agatean knife. We had a stabbing with a similar blade recently and I’d like to ask where he’s gotten such a fancy piece of hardware.” 

Damn. He’s getting old. He should have seen that. 

“Unless you’d rather do the questioning sir? You’re the one who caught him. I’m sure you’ve got questions as well.”

She’s got too much faith in him. Still, never admit to a blind spot when you don’t have to. 

“Your beat captain.” He reminds her. She nods, and they haul the trio into the station. 

***

If someone had told him that the biggest part of his day was going to be paperwork, he’d have quit the job on the spot. 

And it’s not just that it’s paperwork. Oh the paperwork is boring all right, but watchmen are atrocious writers. He’s reread the same sentence in Carrot’s report four times now and it’s still giving him a headache. 

Whereupon I and mine partner, the goodlee Trolle Bluejon did come upon a mistress in moste dire need…

“Reading Captain Carrot’s latest masterpiece?” Cherie ambled into the room, an extra mug of coffee in her hands. Sam briefly wonders if he can find a reason to give her another raise. Probably not without being unfair to the other sergeants on payroll, but maybe he can allocate funding for that evidence collection program she wanted. 

“Ye gods Cheery, I’d rather referee a Dolly Sisters match.” 

Cheery shudders. 

“Oh please no, the Shades still haven’t recovered from the last game. Hand it over, let me take a look.” 

Cheery scans the document briefly, bushy eyebrows furrowed in concentration. 

“Ah. This is about that fistfight between the seamstresses guild and the weavers guild over operating on the rail lines. Let me get a pen. Even for a dwarf, Carrot always writes a little confoundingly.” 

Cheery pulls up another chair and the two of them bends their heads over the reports. The commander is making his way through Nobby’s expense reports- truly a work of postmodern fiction- when Cheery prods him in the side 

“Sorry.” She says bashfully. “But you were nodding off, and Lady Sybil says that it’s no good for your back to be falling asleep in the office chair.”

Sam puts the expense report down. Time was, he'd be able to go until morning on nothing but a cup of coffee (or maybe a bottle of wine). It’s barely past nine. He’d just had a long break for dinner only four or five hours ago, and took young Sam for curry. 

He wants to argue with her, but it’s never wise to give an order that contradicts one given by a superior officer, and he knows that Lady Sybil supersedes him in matters of his health amongst the watch. 

“Alright, we’ll call it a night. Maybe if I’m lucky, the numbers in Nobby’s expense report will rearrange themselves into something sensible out of pure shame.” 

“I’ll get Captain Carrot to walk you home.” She says. 

Walk him home? 

“Cheery” he starts. 

“That one’s from Lord Vetinari. That werewolf pack you arrested the leader of is still at large in the Shades and it’s a full moon tomorrow night sir.” 

Walk him home. Like he’s some kind of invalid. 

He fought a whole pack of werewolves off once. Naked. 

“Well, you can tell him you tried to stop me but I was too damned stubborn.” Vimes grunts at her. Cheery makes a tutting noise in the back of her throat and leaves his office, likely to get Carrot. 

He’s old, but not broken. And still sly. It takes longer than it used to to shimmy out the window, but he’d been born a street urchin and some habits don’t die, they just get moldy. 

Vimes lights a cigar and starts his way home. Let’s himself get lost in thought a bit. 

It’ll probably be that Von Lipwig boy. What a travesty. At least the boy’s wife is sensible. Originally, a few years back, he’d thought it would be Carrot, but the city has changed. It doesn’t need a Kinge of Olde so much as it needs a clever statesman with a golden tongue, to keep all the guilds and businessmen and merchants from slitting each other's throats. 

It's not a sure bet. Carrots not out of the running. The DeWord boy is a dark horse in all this. There’s something to be said for being “of the right blood”, even if it’s not much. 

Still, the matter is down the street but it’s still at that distance where you’ve got to squint a bit to see it. And maybe Vetinari will never retire. Maybe that vampire in Uberwald will give him a quick nip and the matter of a successor won’t be an issue. The man’s practically bloodless anyways, it could be years before anyone even notices. 

He isn’t really paying attention to the streets around him, trusting his feet to know the cobbles and carry him home. But Commander Sir Samuel Vimes has been an officer of the law for a damned long time now, and even lost in thought he’s still hard to get the drop on. He smells wet dog before he sees or hears anything. 

Ah. The accursed law of narrative convenience. 

Vimes let his knees crumple, faking a stumble as the massive wolf comes leaping out of the mists. The beast sails overhead with an almost comical look of surprise as he’s not where he was supposed to be. Vimes straightens upwards in a hard, fast jerk, burying his shoulder into the wolf’s underbelly and sending it sprawling into a bunch of waste bins. They clatter noiselly. 

“You’re not going to get the drop on me, you lot. Though gods damn you, I’m going to have to fill out animal control and arrest forms.” 

Despite the cocky statement this isn’t actually a great situation. His wonderful night vision had alerted him to three more shaggy creatures circling at the edges of the lamplight, probably thinking him blind. 

Well, when the odds are against you, go odd. 

“Callum Sonky does your mother know you’re running about with a pack of wolves at night rather than studying for your clerks exam?” 

One of the wolves stops dead in its tracks, then slinks low. 

“And I could find you in a room full of vermin as the filthiest one, Benji Cobber. You think Queen Molly might have a thing to say about one of her subjects assaulting an officer of the watch? I’d heard you’d just made ‘Dribbler’ with the guild. Shame.” 

The mangiest of the wolves actually tucks its tail and whimpers. 

He doesn’t recognize the last one. Ah well, that’s what the truncheon is for. Behind him he can hear the wolf he threw into the bins make its way to its feet. Probably pissed it off too. 

The wolf in front of him charges. Vimes makes a swipe with his truncheon that he’d known was going to miss and follows it up with a Knee of Justice that makes a satisfying crunching sound when it connects with the wolf’s head. The other one comes from behind and he kicks out. Damn. Too slow. It sinks its teeth into his boot and Vimes thanks Lady Sybil’s poor darning, the extra yarn acting like a kind of armor between him and deadly fangs. 

He doesn’t see the last wolf. Neither did the pack. 

Angua comes ripping out of the fog, the kind of snarl that really sets off that monkey part of the brain to want to run up the nearest tree. She doesn’t bother with a body check and instead grabs the wolf that’s latched on to his leg by the throat. 

There’s a sickening sound of wet flesh and the beast is on the ground, eyes glazed over. She spins in place, hackles up and locks into a fight with the one he’d kicked into the bins. 

He’s seen werewolves fight before, on the slopes of Uberwald. It had been Angua and her brother then. She’d been desperate and heart broken and had still put up a good spat. Here she’s the undeniable champion dog fighter- boxing the other wolf in, taking snaps at its legs when it goes for her head and dragging it about by the flanks when it makes the mistake of trying to flee. She’s a whirlwind of blond fur and teeth like knives. Vimes steps back and lets her work, eyes casting about for the other werewolf. 

Damn. 

They heal so quickly. 

With a yelp the other wolf flees. Angua takes two massive strides after it and then stops dead in her tracks, trotting back to Vimes. When she gets close she pins her ears down and gives him a tentative tail wag. 

“I’m fine.” He says. His leg is throbbing though. The thing’s teeth didn’t get through but it nearly pulled his trick knee from the socket. Vimes winces and forces it to bear weight. He’ll live. 

Angua sits patiently on her haunches. For all the world that she’s trying to look like an unthreatening retriever, there’s bits of gore stuck to her fur and one of her inch long fangs is sticking out of her jowls. Her big golden eyes meet his plaintively. Vimes takes off his cloak and casts it about her shoulders before turning around to give her some privacy. 

There’s a nauseating squelch. Then- 

“I thought Carrot or Detritus was supposed to walk you home, sir.” 

Vimes fishes about in his belt pouch for a cigar. Clips the end untidily. 

“I don’t need to be walked home, Captain. I’m not some mincing ponce.” 

Angua gives him a long, slow blink. He recognizes that look from when Sybil can’t seem to decide which stupid thing he’s done that needs to be addressed first. 

“Article four subsection 2b asterix semicolon. When an officer of the watch has had a credible threat made to his strike through their persons he strike through they shall be under guard until such time the threat is considered managed, see footnote for definitions of managed.” 

“How'd you have just that damn bit memorized?” He asks her. Angua shrugs, shifting his cloak to cover more of her exposed shoulder. The teeth marks there are already fading. 

“I have most of the Rulees and Regulathions oft Thee Gaurde down at this point. Carrot reads it out loud to me when I can’t sleep.” 

She wrinkled her pretty nose at him. 

“Didn’t you pen that one?” 

Vimes accidentally inhales on his cigar and then coughs mightily. 

“That was supposed to be for Detritus, when that troll gang in Flatbottom wanted his teeth.” 

Angua is cleaning bits of blood out from under her claws. She frowns at them like a debutante discovering that her nail paint hasn’t set quite right. 

“I was unaware that regulations didn’t apply to specific members of the watch. I wonder how Lady Sybil will feel about that rule not applying to you, sir.” 

That’s his own trick right there. Vimes takes a moment to pity Callum Sonky. His mother is a real terror. 

“You know I taught you that one.” He tells her. Angua gives him an innocent shrug. 

“Come sir, I’ll walk you the rest of the way home. I’m certain Willikins will have a spare guard outfit I can throw on and it’s closer than the Yard at this point.”

They walk together in amicable silence for a bit. She says nothing about his limp and Vimes is ever grateful for it. She’s got a rare gift, of knowing when quiet is comfortable and how not to ruin it. 

Vimes glances over. She’s fiddling with her badge, playing with the gilded edge that marks her rank as captain. 

“So I take it you drew the short straw?” He asks, not unkindly. Angua looks up startled, animal eyes flashing in the torchlight. For a moment, he’s reminded that under all that civilization she was born a wild thing. Then it’s gone. 

“They want to know when you’ll be retiring, Mr. Vimes. You’re not getting any younger.” 

Ouch. Well at least she’s being straightforward about it. He hates to think about trying to have this conversation with Colon, or gods forbid it, Nobby. 

“What makes anyone think I’m retiring? I always thought I’d go out breaking up a brawl at the Drum.” 

The look Angua gives him could etch glass. 

“I hardly think young Sam or Lady Sybil would appreciate that. Sir.” 

She really has learned all his tricks. 

“I’ve been a copper for too long, Angua. I can’t exactly drop it. Besides, there’s so many moving parts to the job. It’s hardly all chasing crooks through the streets anymore.” 

“Do you trust the system you’ve built and the people you’ve trained? You’ve told me at least twice that Carrot is the best policeman you’ve ever seen sir.” 

Vimes shakes his head. 

“I need Carrot where he is- Captain means he’s approachable enough that common folk will talk to him and he’s got enough authority that the wigs will answer his questions. Besides, there’s still the question of who takes over from Lord Vetinari and I’d hate to leave the whole city in shambles if Carrot ends up with two jobs.” 

“I’ve actually put my money on Mr. Von Lipwig to replace the Patrician.” Angua offers. 

Vimes finishes the last puff of his cigar, goes to toss it in the street and then remembers the new city ordinance about littering. Where’s a bin when you need one?

“You’re probably right about that. But then we’d have two happy-go-lucky idiots running the city, and I’ve met the girl they have primed to take over the assassin’s guild. She’ll run a carriage on them.”

“Jocasta Wiggs” Angua spits with real venom. Vimes can’t help but feel a bit proud that she’s taken up his dislike for the Assassins. Carrot always lectures him on the importance of balance and the function the guilds all serve. 

“You know she’s been clerking for Mr. Slant? An assassin and a lawyer. That ought to be illegal.” 

They both stew on that for a moment. An assassin. And a lawyer. Whoever runs the city next will have their hands full. 

“No, I like Lipwig for the job. Well, not like him, but he’ll do. That wife of his, Adorable Deerfield or whatever she’s called, is enough of a dead eye to keep the guilds from mounting his blonde head on a pike.” 

“Adora Bell Dearheart. I like her too. She threatened Sally with a stake if she misappropriated the clax lines again.” 

Vimes laughs at that. He likes Constable Von Humperdink, but a petty little part of him still prefers to watch vampires squirm. 

“So, d’you want the job?” He asks. 

“What?” Angua practically hisses at him. It’s good to see he can still surprise his officers now and again. 

“I’m speaking plain Moorparkian, aren’t I?” 

“You want a werewolf running the city watch?” She actually growls at him. 

“No, I want you running the city watch. The werewolf thing will make things tricky, but we’ll promote Sally to Captain in a few years before we announce you as my Vice Commander, and that should keep the vampires happy. Or at least the Black Ribboners.” 

They’re standing in front of Scoone avenue now. It looks like there’s some kind of party going on at the DeWord manor, that he’s certain to have thrown away an invitation for. Good choice, it looks raucous. Disturbing the bloody peace. 

“But why me?” Angua sounds small then. She looks small too suddenly, his cloak hanging awkwardly off her shoulder. He forgets, for all her pragmatism and level headedness that she’s still quite young. 

“Because you’ve got any eye for details. You fill in your paperwork and I can actually read the stuff- which I’ve got a hunch there’s only going to be more paperwork. And you scare the everloving shit out of everyone but Carrot and Cheery.”

He gives her a long look. He’s met her father once, the man’s not got much brain left in his skull. 

“Because you’ve got a damn fine head on your shoulders, Captain.” He doesn’t add that her not really wanting the job is a plus. Those who seek power...nisi morti obnoxia esse tyrannis or something like that. 

“And Sybil agrees with me.” He adds. Actually Sybil had suggested it. 

“You’re dooming me to report to Moist Von Lipwig sir?” She grumbles and wipes at her nose, smearing some gore from her fight across it. He offers her a handkerchief, and remembers not to spit on it as he would for young Sam. 

“Not necessarily. Could be Carrot. Or William DeWord.” He points out. She actually bares her teeth at that. He doesn’t think she’ll ever forgive The Times editor for the scallitine bomb. 

“Can I have time to think it over, sir? And talk to Carrot?” She’s never been promoted over him. And if this were any other couple, Vimes would worry. No matter who ends up where, he knows Carrot will congratulate her, full heartedly. 

They’ll be better than he ever was. Angua’s cool pragmatism, her mind for puzzles. Carrot’s knowledge of the city and everyone in it, his love for every inhabitant and their love for him. It’s a faint picture, like one of those spotty paintings in the Royal Arts Museum that everyone’s raving over, but he can see it; there’s a future where most watchmen don’t carry swords or stop with fear in their hearts that an unseen crossbow bolt will shorten their careers. 

Vimes doesn’t scare her with prophecy though. 

“Course you can. We’re still years away from it. I just had best start training someone for the job.”

The doorway to Ramekin hall swings open. Wilkins is standing there. He takes one look at Angua, sniffs, and turns on his heel. Behind him, Young Sam is standing in the doorway, arms full of an elderly dragon. 

“Da!” He yells. Vimes drops to his good knee and takes the brunt of an excited child trying to bowl him over. 

“Woah there lad.” Vimes steadies him, and carefully extracts the flustered dragon from his grip. 

“Angua!” Young Sam abandons his father to pounce on Angua, who scoops the boy up and balances him on her hip. 

“Did you beat up a bastard?” Young Sam asks excitedly. Vimes winces. Sybil is going to have words for him. 

“That’s not nice language, Sam. And yes, your Dad and I had a disagreement with some werewolves.” 

Young Sam’s eyes grow wide. 

“Which I will tell you all about in bed, young man.” Vimes admonishes. Young Sam grins cheekily up at him. 

“How did you get out of bed, anyways? I thought the nanny was sleeping in your room while we fixed the heat in her quarters.”

Young Sam snorts. 

“I snuck out. Pil and Robbie are teaching me sneaking.” Pil and Robbie, where had he heard those names?

Vimes groans. Pilferetta and Robber Boggis. The twin son and daughter of one J.H “Flannelfoot” Boggis, head of the Thieves Guild. Oh no. He’s forgotten they’re also in Miss Sto Helit’s class. 

Wilkins returns with a spare uniform for Angua, and she steps into the entryway washroom. 

“Da can I do secondary school at the Thieves guild? Pil and Robbie say that noble kids usually go to the Assassins guild, but I don’t want to be an assassin. Besides then I can learn to pick locks.” 

Vimes lets out a long, slow breath. He does not immediately screech out that no son of his is going to be an assassin, nor does he proclaim that he’ll burn the Thieves guild to the ground before Sam can attend a single class there. 

“We’ll see.” He says instead. It’s a testament to Sybil’s good influence. Young Sam bounces excitedly before reclaiming the dragon he’d foisted upon his father. Vimes sets him down. Before he can order his sprog off to bed, Sam takes off down the hallway. So it’s going to be that kind of night. 

Angua steps out of the washroom, dressed in a new set of watch browns. He’ll have to see about getting her a new uniform made, one with more pips on the shoulder. She folds her hands behind her back, as if to make a verbal report. 

“So there’s Jocasta Wiggs set to inherit as head of the Assassins Guild. The Patricianship is undecided, which makes people uneasy, but the likely candidate is Moist Von Lipwig.” She’s ticking things off on her fingers now. Vimes suppresses a smile. The Ankh was always too polluted for fishing. Besides, this is his kind of angling. 

“Sacharissa Cripslock is pregnant with whatever hellspawn is to be raised by William DeWord. The Fool’s Guild has purchased equipment to make ‘moving pictures’ from the university. And Young Sam Vimes wants to go to the Thieves Guild for school.” 

She squints at him. 

“If I take the job-if- I want a raise.” 

Vimes grins at claps her on the shoulder. Hook, line, sinker. Or however that saying goes. 

“If you take the job” He tells her earnestly “You’ll have earned it.”

**Author's Note:**

> nisi morti obnoxia esse tyrannis -bad Latin, but it means "becomes a tyrant themselves".
> 
> Also- Yes, Sam is still keeping his six o'clock appointment to see his son every day, but now that Young Sam is a bit older they often go for some kind of carry out near the Yard. 
> 
> Thank you for getting this far. Writing and posting again is surprisingly calming. Apologies for the occasional poor wording choice or grammar error, as I didn't proofread this one as much as I usually do.


End file.
